The Garden of the Hesperides
by manic-intent
Summary: Ezio x Altair Ezio takes a look inside the Apple.


[A/N: Nescienx bribed me.]

The Garden of the Hesperides

I

The first time Ezio opens his mind to the Apple, he drowns.

He wakes on a couch in the Villa, his sister sobbing over his chest and his face soaked to the collar. Above him, his uncle stands, an empty pail in his hands, his expression grim and pale, nearly frightened.

"Do not do that again," Mario says, even as he hands the Apple – now safely back in its pouch – back to Ezio. Ezio nods mutely even as he embraces Claudia close, soothing her with words he does not later remember, stroking her hair until her sobs soften into gasps and then to wrenching breaths.

"Someone cast me out," Ezio's voice is hoarse, dry and cracking. "Of the Apple. I could not draw free, but I was cast out."

"Oh?" Mario seems surprised. The old assassin's eyes flick to the pouch that Ezio has refastened at his belt, and then to his features, and back, to where Claudia has buried her face in Ezio's collar, her shoulders shaking. "Later, I will tell you. But do not do that again. Claudia thought you dead when she found you. You are lucky that she decided to look for you when she did."

"I was never in any danger," Ezio retorts, stubborn, recalling the wonder of it, the _revelations_, the way understanding budded and blossomed in the brilliant light that had seared itself over his eyes. "And the Apple, what I saw, it was-"

Mario's palm snaps his head to the side as the slap lands across his cheek. Incredulous, outraged, Ezio clutches at his jaw with a glare, Claudia flinching, but Mario merely sighs, long and drawn-out and weary, and turns his back upon them, stalking away to his study.

"What did you see?" Claudia murmurs, tentative.

"I…" Mario had not looked _angry_. There had been fear, but the fear had been for his sake. "I… no, nothing."

"I wish you would not keep things from me," Claudia whispers, her fingers twisting into his cloak. "Once we had no secrets, and all of Firenze was our playground. Now my world consists of this villa and of you, and you, you are full of secrets."

"_Mi dispiace_, sister." Ezio kisses her forehead gently. "Some secrets are necessary. Not knowing them will keep you safe."

"What manner of secret stops your heart, brother, only for it to start again so long after you should be dead?" Slender fingers pick at the missaglias armor over his chest. "Please, do not frighten me like that again. I have only you left now, you and a shadow of Mother, and if I lose you I will die."

"You will not lose me so easily, Claudia." Ezio says soothingly, disconcerted now at her words. _His heart had stopped_. "I need to speak to Mario."

"_Si, si_," Claudia twists her fingers against his, squeezing tight, then wipes her eyes and takes to her feet. She glares at the pouch at his belt and exhales, hugging herself, but before Ezio can offer further comfort, she turns to go, walking with quick determination towards her study.

Ezio waits until she is out of sight, before dropping his hand to the pouch. It is more obvious now that he is alone: the Apple is _warm_, and it seems to hum under his touch, in a soft, sibilant insectile purr.

He finds Mario in the secret room beneath the villa, staring up at Altaïr's statue, his long fingers, thickened from years with the blade, folded behind his back. "So it has awoken," Mario says quietly, when Ezio circles silently to his side.

"There is something within it, something that is not the Apple," Ezio tries again. It has never been his nature to let go. "It was… friendly. It seemed friendly."

"That is because it was likely one of us, and we look after our own, even over the ages." Mario turns, his eyes unforgiving. "The Apple takes your soul in payment for knowledge, Ezio. Some of us have sought too much, too fast. It is one of the most dangerous of the Pieces."

"The Apple of Knowledge," Ezio muses, but he keeps his hands tightly at his side. "Do not fear, uncle. I have no interest in what the Apple can tell me. If I need something built, I already have a genius for an engineer."

Mario opens his mouth, as if to elaborate, then the old assassin clearly thinks better of it, glancing away instead, at one of the lesser statues. "It is good that you are so resolved." Ezio flinches as a heavy palm lands of his shoulder. "Go, go and train. Empty your mind." The sober set to the old assassin's jaw tells Ezio that his uncle is not in the least convinced of his assurances. "When you next feel the urge to use the Apple again, think of your sister."

II

The second time he dives, he dives in Venezia, with careful instructions to Antonio to wake him by any means necessary if his heart stops. He claims he needs power to overthrow the Borgia; in truth, he is curious – not so much about the Apple, but about the presence within it, or _presences_, if Mario is to be believed.

He is floating.

Languages and images sleet past him, over his fingers and through his body, like water, like air; he drifts with the current, twisting around and about, the sky and the ground a white, endless grid of lines, stretching into infinity and beyond. As he contemplates this wonder, something grasps his clothes and _wrenches_. Ezio shouts, in astonishment, but there is no sound, instinctively, he twists and struggles, and someone cuffs him across the ear. White sleets around him as he _breathes_, with a sudden, wet gasp, and the grid fragments, ebbing away, then rushing back, like an inexorable tide, compiling color, stone, _sky_.

Ezio finds himself in a walled garden, beautifully trimmed and tiered, trees raising their spreading crowns towards the warm afternoon sun. Brightly colored birds cock their heads at him from the branches, their warbling and twittering a pleasant accompaniment to the susurration of the brook that runs down a tier and into a pond, where fish turn in golden flickers under the sparkling water.

"_Paradiso_," Ezio voices his first impression, startled.

"Such was the intention." The voice behind him is a mellow baritone, the words at once comprehensible and incomprehensible; the language is not one that Ezio understands, and yet he _does_.

An Assassin, hooded and in white, is seated on a bench, legs flat-footed and apart on the grass, elbows on his knees, hands clasped before him, his left ring finger starkly missing, what little of his jaw visible under the hood baked brown by the sun. Behind him is a fortress, built simply and serviceably out of stone bleached white by the weather. His robes are simpler than Ezio's, plain, flowing white fabrics, but the intricacies of his breastplate, greaves and bracers are instantly familiar. Ezio had last seen the same set behind an ancient grille.

"_Altaïr_?"

Altaïr does not visibly react more than a slight stiffening of his shoulders. "You know my name?"

"You are a legend."

Lips twist wryly at his words. "Show me your face, Assassin."

Obligingly, Ezio pulls back his hood, his knuckles brushing over sideburns cropped thin as they edged into a beard, the bristles prickling his knuckles, then _disappearing_. Frowning, Ezio feels over his jaw, clean-shaven now; he slips a hand back into his collar. The recent scar, just under his collarbone, from an arrow-wound, is gone. When he _concentrates_, however, the scar tissue returns, ridges uncurling under his fingers. Curious.

"And you, sir?"

Altaïr snorts. "I find it is often better not to put a face to a legend." There is a vein of dark humor there, old and not entirely human, not any longer. "Why are you here, Ezio?"

"How do you know my name?"

"I can read it," Altaïr says patiently. "Do you not have the Sight?"

"I do," Ezio concentrates, and the world dims, lit by faint, pale blue scrolls of static _text_, shaping the trees, the birds, the squat fortress behind them; Altaïr is an incandescent blue, so bright that it _hurts_ to look close, and Ezio rubs his eyes sharply as he returns, blinking dumbly. He did not 'read' any of the text, but he could surmise from the structure, from its famous occupant. "We are in Masyaf?"

"We are in a copy of Masyaf," Altaïr corrected. "My question, Ezio."

"I was curious," Ezio admitted. "Did you push me out of the Apple, before?"

"You were about to die if I did not. What you do now risks your soul," Altaïr warns, "And for insufficient reason, it seems."

"How long have you been here, alone?" The question slips out before Ezio can rewrite it more diplomatically; Altaïr's's jaw tenses, but he does not get to his feet.

"Long enough to know foolishness when I see it."

"I have questions, sir," Ezio says then, as humbly as he can make it. "There is a Templar-"

"There will always be Templars. And there will always be Assassins. Sometimes the balance tilts either way, but what you will do will not change anything. That is how we were made, by those who were."

"You speak in riddles, Altaïr." Ezio tried his best not to sound accusing. "There is power in this Apple, is there not?"

"Yes. But you," Altaïr lifts his head, just enough for Ezio to catch a glimpse of glittering, hard dark eyes, "You do not want it enough to deserve its price."

The world falls away.

III

"Whatever you do, do not touch it. Do not look too long into it." Ezio hovers anxiously over the shoulder of his best friend, as Leonardo inspects the Apple. It glows on the workshop table, humming gently. "So, what can you tell me about this?"

"I have never seen the like," Leonardo breathes, carefully measuring the Apple with calipers, taking furious notes in his odd, mirrored script. "And you say there are others like this? Marvelous!"

"Mario says that men have often used them. This one is called the Apple."

"The Apple of Hesperides?" Leonardo grins, then he blinks as the sphere seems to _warp_, twisting and blurring, and abruptly, a perfect golden apple sits where it was, a drop of dew still lingering on the single leaf at its stem.

Leonardo is the first to speak, in the stunned silence. "Why, this is magic!"

"Magic-"

"Yes, yes, there must be an explanation. Some sort of scientific explanation. But it is so beautiful," Leonardo muses earnestly, and to Ezio's horror, the artist touches the Apple.

"Leonardo, no!" He manages to grab Leonardo's wrist, and they dive.

Against the sleet of images, he holds a blur of shifting blue flame, and for one startled moment he almost lets it go; only discipline remembers what he had in his hand, and he tries to force his way up and _out_, dragging the blue cloud behind him, remembering the garden, visualizing it and its occupant as fiercely as he could. The current flows _away_ from them, as though scalded, and they surface up onto the grass, the sun on their backs and birdsong above them. Ezio groans, lying on his side, suddenly exhausted, but beside him, Leonardo rolls onto his back, the artist looking all but rapturous with wonder.

"This is _amazing_. Are we inside the Apple?"

"You have brought an outsider," Altaïr looms suddenly into his peripheral vision, from behind, and the assassin sounds _angry_. "Their minds are not built for this!"

"I-"

"And who are you, sir? Are you also an assassin, like Ezio?" Leonardo scrambles to his feet, his smile broad and friendly. "Why, this is so exciting! Were we transported? Or was it just our minds? This looks like Arabia! Are the Apples of Hesperides from Arabia?"

Altaïr seems a little startled at the barrage of questions, hesitating, but only for a moment – his hand shoots forward, over Leonardo's eyes. "Leave," he commands. "Forget."

Leonardo's very form sleets away, and Ezio pushes himself hurriedly to his feet, lunging, instinctively triggering the hidden blade in his right bracer. "Do not hurt him!"

Altaïr slaps his wrist aside, shoving him roughly with a palm against his shoulder, and then kicking him in the stomach. Ezio lands on his back with a gasp, the air forced out of his body, then he tenses as he feels steel against his throat, Altaïr straddling his waist. Under the shadow of the other assassin's hood, his eyes are narrowed, feral.

"Do not dare attack me again." Altaïr holds the blade against his throat a moment longer, then it slips back into his bracer, and the other assassin uncurls to his feet, stalking away with animal grace towards the dark archway of the fortress.

"Wait!" Ezio scrambles after him, keeping a respectful distance. "What did you do to Leonardo?"

"Outside? He will be sleeping. He will not remember the Apple. You will do well not to show it to him again." Altaïr does not pause in his stride, sweeping into the hallway, a long stretch of shadow mottled by archways of sunlight.

"It was an accident," Ezio says, defensive. "What did you mean about 'their minds'? Leonardo is the most brilliant man in Italia."

"Those who are not of the Templar or the Assassins, they are not of two worlds. When they touch the Apple for too long… madness is the result." Altaïr circles, turning down another corridor, their footsteps silent in the unnatural stillness of the empty fortress. "You should know this. There are stories about the Apple."

"_Va bene_. It will not happen again," Ezio promises, shuddering at the very thought. "_Grazie_."

Altaïr actually pauses, turning so quickly that Ezio nearly walks into him. "Do not come back."

"No. I want to learn."

"I said before-"

"I am not interested in what the Apple can teach me. I want to learn what _you_ can teach me," Ezio flicks his eyes briefly down to Altaïr's left hand. "I _need_ to learn."

"And what can you offer me, such that I will teach you?" Altaïr counters.

Ezio hesitates. What could he offer a lost soul? "The Templars, the Borgia, they want to open the tomb in Roma."

"What care do I have of that?"

"You are an assassin-"

"You speak of faraway lands, of times long past my own, of men I have never known. These are no longer my cares." Altaïr makes as if to turn away, and Ezio, on impulse, darts forward, grasping his wrist.

"_Wait_. Then, what do you want?"

"Want?" Altaïr echoes, looking down pointedly at his fingers. When Ezio does not let him go, the other assassin shakes off his grip, almost contemptuously. "What do _I _want?"

"If it is within my power-"

"It is not." Altaïr turns away, his shoulders hunched. "I want to die."

IV

Ezio doesn't dare try his uncle's temper, but Antonio's is another matter. The thief guild's guildmaster-assassin frets over his caffe as Ezio explains, his long fingers twitching over the cup and tracing the edge of the saucer.

"I am not sure," Antonio says finally, "If you are truly interested in knowledge, or if you are just curious about Altaïr. You never struck me as one for philosophy or power, which is why the rest of us were comfortable leaving the Apple in your personal keeping."

"I am interested in neither. But Altaïr is a master of the blades. I need to learn. On the docks, I could barely hold my own; it would have gone poorly for me without intervention from all of you."

"There are better ways of learning bladework without doing this. Other ways that do not risk your soul." Antonio gestures at his ledger books. "I know names, people who can teach you. If not I, then Bartolomeo knows."

"And the techniques, the forgotten ones from Masyaf? Mario has said that we remember little of those, the ones I had to learn from the Codex. The Codex that _Altaïr _wrote."

"I see your mind is set," Antonio says, almost pitying. "Well! If you want to 'dive' again, I can watch you, if that is what you want."

"That is not what I wanted to ask you, _amico mio_. Altaïr's wish. Is it possible?"

"He is already dead, Ezio." Antonio looks uncomfortable. "What you spoke to were fragments of his soul, trapped inside the Apple. It seems that Mario would know more. Until you spoke to me about what you had seen, I had no idea that it could contain what it does. To me, it was just one Piece out of many."

"So you would have no idea how to… erase a soul."

"No, Ezio. How do you destroy a man's soul?" Antonio shrugs. "Perhaps Teodora would have an insight, or Mario, but for me, the best way to kill a ghost is to ignore it."

V

The garden is empty when Ezio dives, the private room in the brothel ebbing away. He does not enter the current this time, he notes, bypassing it completely for 'Masyaf'. The fortress seems warmer, brighter, but still eerily empty; Ezio passes study rooms with books still open on the low desks, cushions askew as though their users had only recently left. Ascending the stair on silent feet, Ezio catches sight of Altaïr, his back turned, facing a large desk at the end of the mezzanine, flanked by floor-to-ceiling shelves. There is a black and white robe, folded on the desk, beside it an inkwell, and a half-written report.

"You are very stubborn," Altaïr says tonelessly, his left hand resting on the robe.

"I have been told that."

"_He_ would have called it a family resemblance," Altaïr continues, cryptic, his hand curling over the robe for a moment longer, "And you are getting better. I did not feel your presence until you walked up the stair."

"If you want to die, I could put my blade through your neck."

"You are not the first assassin who has visited me. Nor, I suspect, would you be the last. And you will not be the first who has tried to help me." Now, Altaïr turns, his lips in a thin line. "It cannot be done."

"But-"

"You are standing _within_ the fragments of my soul, Ezio. Even were you to sink your blade into this simulacra that I have shaped to give you a focus to talk to, you could not 'kill' me."

"Is it so bad in here? Are there not others?" At Altaïr's silence, Ezio amends, "Other Assassins. My uncle Mario said-"

"There are no others. I have prevented visitors from sharing my fate." Altaïr's laugh is ugly, mirthless. "To that end I have set myself. You cannot help me, because I do not want to be helped. It would be easy to lose myself to the Apple. And yet someone must remain, to cast out those who would enter to seek its knowledge. I want to die, but I _need_ to remain. Leave."

"It is not the same here as it is in the current," Ezio observes. "There, I was drowning. Here, this feels _safe_."

"Because it is. You are in no danger from the Apple _here_." Altaïr explains, and then his lip twists as he realizes that he has said too much. "But I tire of entertaining unwanted guests."

"Surely you receive few enough guests for us to be tiresome," Ezio grins, circling around Altaïr to sprawl into the high-backed chair at the desk, leaning back to prop his boots on the table. Altaïr glares at him darkly from under his cowl. "I could tell you of the outside world, if you like. Even if it is centuries past your time."

"You," Altaïr growls, "Are _insufferable_."

"I have heard that before as well," Ezio returns cheerfully, propping his arms behind his head, pushing his luck a little further, "And in any case, seeing as you have not yet cast me out, surely my offer is of a _little_ interest?"

"You test my patience sorely, child."

"Or," Ezio continues, impulsive, "Perhaps I could find someone willing to take over your burden, or share it. Men often seek life everlasting, and this is a close approximation. Perhaps an older assassin-"

"No. I would not ask this of any other, nor trust any other with this responsibility."

"Mario will know someone, I am sure."

"_Look_, child," Altaïr snarls, exasperated, "If I teach you what you want to know, will you leave me be?"

"_Va bene_, Altaïr," Ezio says, smug. "_Grazie_ for your kind offer."

VI

"You are better," Mario says grudgingly, lowering his blade. "Far better."

"You could say I have had good teachers," Ezio sheathes his, exhilarated. Sparring with Altaïr is like sparring against quicksilver; now his uncle feels _slow_, every possible movement predictable. Altaïr, on the other hand, is a master of feints and counters, any weapon, every technique. Ezio comes away from their sessions feeling humbled.

"I see," Mario says carefully, disappointment writ into his eyes. "You are in the prime of your life, Ezio, and so you take risks without thinking far further. I hope you will not regret what you are doing."

"What is there to regret? It is safe."

"How often a week do you look into the Apple, _nipote_? How often a _day_?"

"Once a day," Ezio lies, then adds a kernel of truth. "Only if I am free."

"Lorenzo is dead and the Medici are in turmoil. We _are_ free," Mario sighs. "Antonio cannot possibly have enough tasks to fill your time, and neither to I, not while we are waiting for Firenze to decide on her new master. Part of the Apple's danger, Ezio, is addiction."

"I am not taking from the Apple."

"Are you so sure that you are not? These are devious things, these Pieces. Do not believe everything you hear, especially from a ghost. And," Mario raises his voice, when Ezio opens his mouth to object, "Even if it were true, even if this entity you see in the Apple is Altaïr, remember that if you linger too long in the Apple, your body here will die."

"I never dive without someone watching me, uncle, do not worry."

"Addiction is a staunch opponent of caution, _nipote_. Remember _that_."

VII

"Outside," Ezio says, "I am older. Yet in here I am not more than thirty, younger, even."

Altaïr raises his head briefly enough for Ezio to recognize puzzlement. "Outside," the assassin says dryly, "I am dead. In here, your appearance is shaped by your inner consciousness, your perception of self. It is human to think of oneself as young. Now get up. Come at me again. Your understanding of stealth is atrocious."

With that, Altaïr vanishes, and Ezio bites out a curse, pulling himself to his feet. This is his third attempt, and he has made little improvement. The courtyard's stones are warm under his hands, as he moves as silently as he can back towards the fort, keeping to the shadows. This time he scales up the walls, instead, scanning the windows with his second sight for any sign of his target.

On the third floor, the living quarters, Ezio detects a flash of incandescent blue as it moves from room to room, and this time, he waits, observing his quarry. Altaïr is circling a set of bedchambers, spartan as the rest of Masyaf and decorated with a few framed sketches, some of a woman, short-haired and broad shouldered, not a conventional beauty by any means, her aquiline, determined smile arresting. Others of a one-armed man, handsome and serious, something always long-suffering about his narrowed eyes, his robes the same set that Ezio had seen folded on the large desk on the second floor.

As quietly as he can, Ezio slips from window ledge to a wooden jut to window ledge and onto a balcony of an adjoining room, creeping slowly, silently, on the balls of his feet, until he is behind the door, and then he waits. _I am as the wall_, he thinks, _as the ground; I am no one_.

Eventually, Altaïr steps into the room, striding past, and Ezio springs onto his back, grabbing for Altaïr's wrist as the assassin hisses in surprise, jamming his thumb against the spring mechanism and pinning Altaïr's other hand with a knee. Altaïr's cowl has fallen back, pooling behind his neck; under it is a surprisingly handsome face, the pursed lips sensual under a narrow nose, the eyes dark and wild under the short crop of black hair.

"Good," Altaïr says finally. "That was acceptable. If you can remember this, outside, you can meld into and penetrate the most secure of fortresses."

"I think I can remember." Ezio grins, mischievous. "So then, teacher, if the enemy has you pinned, like this, what do you do next?"

Altaïr glares. "Get off me, child."

"Think of it as a teaching opportunity."

"My legs are free," Altaïr points out irritably, "And your back is open. Are you satisfied, or do I need to hurt you?"

"What of distraction?"

"What distraction?"

On sheer, playful impulse, Ezio plants his free hand on Altaïr's shoulder and bends to kiss him; Altaïr growls, twisting to turn his cheek against Ezio's lips, jerking at his pinned hands; Ezio takes the fact that there is no further physical objection as encouragement, lapping playfully to his mouth, then against it, his tongue stroking over clenched teeth. Altaïr tenses, but does not react; finally, in disappointment, Ezio draws back, letting go of the other assassin's hands and preparing to get to his feet.

"That was-"

Altaïr cuts him off by grabbing fistfuls of cowl and collar and flipping him onto his back, pinning him with his weight, his right hand curled around Ezio's skull, the left digging into his shoulder, taking his mouth, so roughly that their teeth click and Ezio chokes on Altaïr's tongue, twisting under the assault; he finds himself moaning and arching into the warm weight, giving back just as fiercely, demanding more with a willing mouth and a questing tongue. His legs are spread; Altaïr grinds hungrily between them, the friction unfamiliar, exhilarating, lust trembles through his veins and in the hitch of his breath.

The hidden blade slams into the floorboards beside his ear, as Altaïr breathes heavily, wounded and harsh, over his lips. "Do not come here again."

VIII

Ezio cannot reach Masyaf; he can feel that it is _there_, but Altaïr is shutting him out. Drifting in the scrolling white, suspended above the current, Ezio feels annoyed. It was not as though Altaïr himself had not responded, after all.

He looks down at the shifting eddy of images and information and shudders, considering leaving the Apple, back to Teodora. A girl is due to check on him every so often, but other than that, Teodora is busy, and what little advice she could give him was strained by her concerns about addiction. Ezio disagrees. He knows what addiction _is_, he sees it everywhere in Italia, the men and women broken by drugs, drink, or power, and this does little more than improve his skills.

Sulkily, Ezio thinks of Monteriggioni, of the Codex pages on the walls of his uncle's study, the writing upon them. Altaïr had seemed like a dreamer, much like Leonardo, lost in his ideas and the world around him, not this bitter remnant trapped in an empty house, rejecting the rest of world as it flowed on around him.

The white beneath his feet seemed to bleed into color, then, to Ezio's pleasant surprise, it scaled away and up around him in an eyeblink, and he was standing in Mario's study, the Codex pages before him.

"Altaïr?"

No, this was not Altaïr's soul, Ezio realizes, as he runs his palm over the oak desk and feels a pleasant spark of synchronicity between his palm. This was _his_. Amused, he leaves the empty study to Claudia's office, peering at the miniature model of Monteriggioni, then at Claudia's desk, and he concentrates, visualizing his sister and her quill, bent over her book-

"What do you think you are doing?"

Altaïr's voice jerks him out of his thoughts, and Ezio whirls. Altaïr stands at the entrance to the study, his cowl hiding his eyes, but his mouth is set in a thin line of anger.

"I-"

"If you call another soul here, it will be trapped here," Altaïr snaps, stalking up to him and cuffing him across the ear. "Why do you think 'Masyaf' is empty?"

"Ah…" Ezio swallows in shock and guilt, reeling back against the desk. "I… I did not know."

"You are a foolish child." Altaïr spits out, as he looks around the villa, "You, and the others who have done this before you! Do you realize that this is the first step, for the Apple? You have given it a fragment of your soul, and all for _nothing_." The fury leaves Altaïr as quickly as it comes; the assassin sighs, long and pained, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "You will feel your loss when you are Outside. It will call to you, until you can no longer tolerate its absence."

"Nothing can be done?"

"I can limit it," Altaïr says, almost grudgingly. "If you are willing to give the fragment into my keeping."

"Like those before me," Ezio echoes. "Did they all…?"

"No. Those that did not, they are lost to the bleed. I will take the fragment on one condition – that you give me your _word_ not to return."

"Then," Ezio retorts, frustrated, "I think I will take my chances."

"_Why_ are you so _maddening?_" Altaïr snarls, and the attack comes out of nowhere; Ezio blocks the blade as it goes for his neck, ducks and weaves to avoid the kick, but Altaïr picks him up by his cowl and his surcoat and hurls him across the table of models with unnatural strength. Rolling from the debris of matchwood and plaster, wincing, Ezio drops to his feet and under the table as Altaïr pounces, blinking at the sound of the hidden dagger stabbing heavily into the wood where his heart had been.

Altaïr means to kill him.

Scrambling out from the table, Ezio lunges for his uncle's study, blindly, using the armored plates of his bracer to deflect the flurry of flying blades, sprinting for the garden. Behind him, Altaïr snarls like a beast deprived of its prey, rumbling and deep, and it is not fear that drives Ezio, not even now, but the adrenaline thrill of balancing on the knife's edge of death. He needs space, and a weapon-

"What is this?" Altaïr asks suddenly, and Ezio turns from where he was halfway out to the garden. The other assassin is staring at the wall of pages, his rage apparently temporarily forgotten.

"Your journal."

"I recognize that," Altaïr says, exasperated. "Why is it here?"

"We collected them."

"I scattered the pages for a reason," Altaïr scowls. "The map-"

"Only those with second sight can read the map. But the Templars know also, of the tomb in Roma. They seek to open it."

"What they find there will not be what they seek," Altaïr says, cryptic again, and forestalls his question with a raise of his hand. "Nor will I tell you what it is."

"What of the man in the writings on the pages?" Ezio asks, gently. "The dreamer, the scientist, the engineer, the artist."

"You decoded the writings?" Altaïr actually seems… embarrassed, for the lack of a better word.

"A friend of mine did. You have met him, if briefly. Leonardo."

"Ah." Altaïr shifts his weight, seemingly awkward. "They were of little consequence. The map is the part that is necessary."

"We learned much from the writings."

"Did you?" Altaïr growls, "Of the man so drawn to the Apple that he cast aside friends, lovers, family, so lost to knowledge that eventually he lost _himself_?"

"You must have loved her very much, her and Malik."

"I did! I did, and yet, the Apple was always _there_, the current, the sections of my soul lost to the white, until their love mattered little and knowledge was everything." Altaïr tears one of the pages off the wall, his movements jerky, then another, and Ezio moves quickly to his side, wrenching away his wrist before he can take another. Altaïr moans, old pain, old memories, and slams Ezio against the wall, his mouth descending upon his lips as Ezio instinctively attempted protest.

When he is loose-limbed, purring and pliable under Altaïr's hesitant caresses, fingers gentle in their circles up his flanks and arms, Altaïr whispers, "You asked how I knew your name. It was not the Sight. The Apple began to wake upon your birth."

"It… what?"

"I cannot tell you why, but it is foreseen. It has been cataloguing your life, your actions, waiting for the moment where you would seek its power. And now," the left, maimed hand strokes his cheek, "You have been foolish enough to take the first step."

"So, you know everything."

"About you? Yes." Altaïr kisses him again, this time tender, gentle, his thumb rubbing against Ezio's cheek as Ezio presses back with an eager groan, light-headed; his fingers move from where they clutched at Altaïr's shoulders to the catches on his robe, and finds his wrists quickly pinned to the wall.

"Give this fragment into my keeping," Altaïr urges, his gaze intense. "You must."

"I cannot agree never to return." Ezio retorts, and gathers courage to voice the rest of his words. "Not when I want you so."

"You are still alive, child," Altaïr lets him go, and tries to pull back, but Ezio curls his arms stubbornly around the other assassin, resting his chin on a cowled shoulder. "If I permit what you ask, you _will_ regret it."

"Give it time, then," Ezio presses. "I will give this to you, but not my word."

Altaïr looks as though he will protest, then he sighs. "Very well. But do not touch me again, unless I will it." For a moment, Ezio catches sight of wild eyes, intense in mutual want, and then Altaïr pulls his cowl down and pushes away from the wall. "Do we have an accord?"

"You want this as well!"

"That matters not."

Ezio considers refusing, until he has his way, but he understands enough of courtship to know a necessary negotiation when he sees it. If he forces Altaïr to accede to his will, the other assassin will resent it, perhaps enough to destroy what little they shared completely. "Very well."

"Here." Altaïr grabs his wrist. "Close your eyes. Let go of this memory."

Ezio obeys, concentrating on the warmth that he can feel through the lace of his sleeve, his own heartbeat, and the sheer insanity of his current situation. Altaïr is a ghost, trapped within a dangerous artifact that Ezio barely understands, and all of his instincts tell him to cut his losses. Perhaps he _is_ stupid.

"You can look now," Altaïr says then. They are back in the garden, and Altaïr has let go of his hand, cupping something within his, a small, curling ball of blue flame. As Ezio watches, it blurs, expanding, and an eagle perches on Altaïr's right wrist, clacking its beak and balancing itself with spreading wings. Altaïr strokes it under its chin, and Ezio shivers, ecstasy sudden in pinpricks under his jaw. The left, maimed hand presses _down_, carefully, over the eagle's proud head, and the bird's outline blurs, contracting, until the hand draws back to reveal yet another colorful songbird, that flutters to the branches to join the others.

Realization dawns as Ezio stares at the other birds in the garden. He _had_ felt it odd that the only 'living' things in 'Masyaf' other than Altaïr himself were the songbirds. There were at _least_ six that he could see. "So many?"

"Curiosity is a requisite assassin trait, unfortunately." Altaïr says, not without a touch of dark humor.

Ezio smiles, sidling up to Altaïr until the other assassin grimaced, their bodies an inch away from touching.

"Ezio." Altaïr whispers.

"Like this, I am not breaking my word, am I?" Ezio points out, all mischief, his lips a hair's breadth from Altaïr's, "_Grazie_ for your help again, Altaïr…" he lowers his voice to an inviting purr. "… _caro mio_."

He laughs as Altaïr growls and shoves him onto the grass, still chuckling as the other assassin's mouth descends upon his.

IX

They embrace on a set of cushions in a corner of the library, their mouths and hands hungry on each other. Altaïr is silent but for his labored breathing, even when Ezio slips a hand under his robe and into his breeches, curling his fingers around hardening flesh and squeezing; even breathing is habit, perhaps, Ezio thinks, or a reflection. He himself has never quite been able to still his voice when participating in the oldest dance in time.

Ezio has lost count of the sessions since the first kiss, the number of times he has dived just to provoke such pleasant conflicts. Outside, to all appearances he is asleep; inside the Apple, he is lost in ecstasy. When Altaïr finally breaches him, moving _deep_, he screams.

X

This last time, as he arrives in the Apple, Altaïr is furious.

"_Why?_"

"Outside I have lived a long life, Altaïr," Ezio says, with a grin, lying down on the grass and spreading his arms to either side, then holding a hand up to his eyes. In the Apple, the skin is still taut over his bones, still young and firm. "I have seen my sister's children grow up, seen the birth of her children's children, trained them in our ways. It was time."

"You have only one chance at life."

"I did, and I have been satisfied with it." Ezio opens his arms invitingly, but Altaïr shakes his head, scowling.

"And now you will be trapped here as well, in eternity."

"There are worse fates." Ezio gives up, rolling back onto his feet. Altaïr does not react at the first, brushing kiss, or the second, but at the third, he opens his mouth, permits the questing tongue, the maimed hand curling under Ezio's chin. "You are truly displeased?"

"The part of me that is not selfish is displeased." It is a small concession, but Ezio is used to such. He smirks instead in response, snaking an arm around Altaïr's waist as though to embrace him, and then pinching him smartly on the rump instead. Altaïr stiffens, his scowl deepening, and Ezio laughs as he springs back. On the tree, his songbird leaps into flight, the feathers lengthening, darkening, and an eagle lights on his arm for a heartbeat before fading. He is whole again.

Altaïr seems surprised. "You have learned quickly."

"That is not all I have learned." Ezio walks over to the wall in the garden and puts his palm to it. The wall falls away, and the white beyond it constructs _upwards_ into the stately towers and rooftops of Firenze. Altaïr draws back his hood, shading his eyes, unreadable. His free hand, his left, curls into a tight fist.

"Come," Ezio beckons, stepping from the walled garden onto familiar flagstones, his smile quick with mischief, leaping from a set of crates to a pole to a richly flowered balcony. "Catch me if you can, old man."

Altaïr smiles, slowly, _finally_, and pulls his cowl over his eyes.

[fin – Nescienx, you owe me art! :O]


End file.
